Windrider
by Alley Cat Sunflower
Summary: Other than making his peace with the possibility of death when they go in search of Heldalf tomorrow, Dezel has no particular plans for his last night on earth—but he's not the only one awake at this hour, and Rose can't say the same. Loosely inspired by the DLC skit "Protection Wind". Rated M for suggestive themes and language. I do not own Tales of Zestiria!


_Okay, so I'm fully aware this probably can't happen within the bounds of canon. But that's not going to stop me from writing it as if it could!_

* * *

" _Huh… You don't think she knows already?"  
_ " _Not much gets past her."_

Sometimes, Dezel really wishes he could see.

It's true that he can actually sense far more than any of his companions, but at least their eyes don't play tricks on them the way the wind does for him. His surroundings are filtered through a haze of emotion and reminiscence; though the wind hisses what he wants to know, it's only because he remembers seeing that he can understand its cryptic whispers—and his memories of sight are subjective.

Even now, the stale breath of the Tintagel Ruins brings Dezel the scent of roses, though he knows full well she's resting in the other room. This may well be their last night on earth; tomorrow, they might meet the Lord of Calamity on the battlefield, and survival was not a guarantee. They needed their rest; no one should be awake at this hour. The wind must be lying; Rose is safely in bed, curled up with her Shepherd in an innocent tangle of limbs and blankets.

But damn it, he wants her; he _needs_ her—but Dezel can't feel her warmth through his new vessel. Sorey can hold Rose close beside him, but he does not grasp the value of that touch; he may see her, but he does not notice her wild beauty. Perhaps, if the Shepherd understood his trespasses, Dezel might even be able to forgive them. As it is, it's more than he can bear to see them together.

So here he stands in another abandoned bedroom, alone in the chill of this ancient darkness, thinking of everything he might lose if all goes badly. But he couldn't care much less about his own life; only vengeance matters. If he dies, then so be it; but he'd better bring down the Lord of Calamity while he's at it, or Dezel will never forgive himself. After all, eliminating the source of hellions _is_ one way of avenging Lafarga… albeit more indirectly than he'd like. But impersonality is a small price to pay for vengeance; if the Lord of Calamity is slain, no cost is too great.

Except Rose. He may wield her like a weapon to suit his ends, but she's by no means expendable: Lafarga died protecting her, and so too will Dezel, if it comes down to it. Such is the strength of his desire to protect and defend her that he thinks he senses her; the wind tugs impatiently at her tunic, restlessly smooths down her leggings, dances with her bare feet on the flagstone. But she's not really there, he tells himself savagely.

"Can we talk?"

Dezel freezes, his breath catching. What is she _doing_? He turns his blind stare on Rose for a minute, trying to gauge the reason for her visit. Her air of affable adaptability is all but gone; in its place, Dezel perceives a swirling mass of nervous energy, not unlike malevolence of a different kind: uncertainty. It's understandable that she might not be able to sleep tonight, but to seek him out like this, she must have some ulterior motive; no one, human or seraph, would voluntari—

Rose clears her throat with some amusement as if to remind him of her presence, and Dezel jumps, dragging himself out of his speculation with difficulty. Yet she doesn't seem to require a response: "I just wanted to thank you," she bursts out suddenly; the wind takes note of her fists, clenched in a powerful and nameless emotion.

Something more than Rose was definitely up tonight: Dezel narrows his eyes. "What for?" he asks guardedly, and crosses his arms, focusing on her more intently in an attempt to pinpoint the problem. Yet the wind tells him only that she can feel it too—that all her senses are sharpened. That could mean anything.

But there's no trace of Rose's hammering heartbeat in her even voice; she's always been dangerously adept at the arts of deception, and Dezel feels a strange twinge of pride in her abilities. "For watching my back," she replies, raising her eyebrows… but he can see well enough that she's watching his reactions very closely, eyes piercing as knives.

This is no simple thank-you; this is a request. But what can he offer her, save the truth he'll never tell? "I told you, I'm just doing my job," mutters Dezel eventually. He doesn't like talking to her about this; it comes uncomfortably close to what was once his heart.

"And what _is_ your job, exactly?" continues Rose, crossing her arms and leaning against the doorframe, and Dezel frowns. They're getting closer to the truth now, whatever it is, but he can't tell whether that's for the best; there's a spark of mischief in her gaze, ready to burst into crueler flames. Perhaps he should simply ignore her, or insist she go back to bed?

…No. Dezel may have a great deal of faith in the Shepherd's abilities, not that he would ever admit it—but he's already acknowledged to himself that his survival is not a guarantee. Now may well be his last chance to talk to Rose, and loath as he is to accept it, there's probably a lot he should say. Even if it hurts.

Well, here goes nothing. "To make sure you stay out of trouble," he tells her finally, but the wind tells him that her question was a mere formality. Rose already knows exactly what she'll say, no matter the answer; she starts speaking almost before Dezel finishes.

"Even when I'm in the sauna?" she asks him pointedly, her eyes glinting, and she straightens up and puts her hands on her hips imperiously: he bows his head, gritting his teeth. He should have known better than to think he would be able to continue monitoring her in such situations once Rose discovered his presence…

But she doesn't seem offended; if anything, she seems to be amused. "You're lucky you're blind already, or I'd take out your sight," she laughs, and the wind tells Dezel that she is unarmed; the threat is empty. "Normally, my body is the last thing peeping toms ever see." Rose gestures proudly to herself, and Dezel can sense their eyes meet in something like a challenge. What is she trying to pull?

No; he must focus on the accusation at hand. She's clearly put two and two together, now that she knows of his existence. "I know," he responds distractedly, turning away as he recalls her myriad would-be suitors over the years. Those who tried to watch her, he rendered unconscious—and those who succeeded, he robbed of their sight. (It was often tempting simply to kill the idiots, but he restrained himself for Rose's sake.) This was exactly why she needed him to protect her.

But Rose only tilts her head curiously, blinking. "I was joking," she tells him, raising her eyebrows in cool surprise, and Dezel's eyes widen in alarm. _Shit_. He needs to be more careful not to show his hand; at this hour, in this company, he is far more likely to forget himself.

"Oh," is all Dezel can remark, and there is a long silence, during which Rose observes him with no small amount of interest. He turns his back, giving her the opportunity to leave, but she doesn't move. Why is she still here; what is it she's after? Again Dezel consults the wind, and again it tells him nothing of use.

"So… how long have you had this _job_ , as you call it?" asks Rose eventually. These questions are clearly tending towards something specific, and Dezel really isn't sure what—nor is he particularly sure he wants to know. Honestly, he's more curious about why she's asking these questions now of all times. It's true that she may not have the opportunity after tomorrow, but by depriving herself of rest, she's actually making this more likely to be their last chance.

"…Longer than I've known your Shepherd," explains Dezel carefully, tersely, his voice edged with a weary sigh. Why does Rose insist on prodding at his past? She couldn't have found a more dangerous topic if she'd tried. Or a more painful one—though she doesn't know how much it hurts.

"He's not _my_ Shepherd," protests Rose, crossing her arms and standing with her weight on one hip, and Dezel can't suppress a single, derisive chuckle. Does she really believe that, even after all they've been through together?

"Yes, he is," counters Dezel. It takes a tainted heart to understand the value of purity, just as it takes a pure heart to cleanse a tainted one. Two balanced hearts have no purpose together; Sorey and Rose will never be lovers, but that's not to say they don't love one another, in their strange and celibate way. "You're his Squire."

Rose purses her lips thoughtfully, and the wind tells him his response is again useless; she's not thinking about his words. "If I agree with you," she haggles, "will you answer my question?"

Dezel glances heavenward momentarily with sightless eyes. " _No_ ," he tells her with conviction, bringing a hand up to pull his hat down slightly, as if to hide behind it. He doesn't know why such a useless action is so comforting; she can't see his eyes anyway.

"I think I have the right to know how long you've been stalking me," tries Rose; her voice is sharper this time, more delicately sarcastic. But she's only trying a different approach, notes the wind; the haze of emotion around her has not shifted, merely how it manifests.

"What difference does it make?" snorts Dezel, crossing his arms. "You won't be able to tell if I'm lying." After all, Rose couldn't even perceive his presence until a couple months ago. There was no way she could verify his answer for herself, and Sorey—as oblivious as he could be—was undeniably trustworthy. His secret was safe with the Shepherd.

"Look, you've got some nerve acting like this when you're the one who was peeping on _me_!" exclaims Rose, flaring up, and takes a step forward with hands again curled into fists… but the wind tells him this isn't quite anger, and he narrows his eyes. If she's not here to accuse him of spying, as seems to be the case, then what does she want of him?

"I was just protecting you," growls Dezel, jaws clenched. Will she never understand? He knows all too well that he can never have her; she doesn't have to remind him. This is as close as he can ever get to touching her, listening to the wind whisper of her soft smooth skin—and ensuring that no one pierces that pure and precious flesh. "That's all."

"Is that what they call it these days?" retorts Rose disbelievingly, taking a few more slow-swaying steps forward, and Dezel instinctively takes a step back. He knows all too well that this is a side of her she shows only to her prey. "Then I'll be sure to return the favor and _protect_ you sometime, too."

Dezel scowls; that won't do. A seraph's duty is to defend their vessel, not the other way around. "In that case, you can try covering me in battle once in a while," he mutters reluctantly; that, at least, would be more like teamwork.

"Huh?" asks Rose, tilting her head as if in confusion, but she can no longer suppress a slight smirk: Dezel braces himself, but is woefully unprepared for her next words: "I was talking about seeing you naked." And he freezes; the words of the wind are momentarily unintelligible, and even his thoughts are formless. "But hey, I guess covering you works too," adds Rose, looking him up and down appraisingly. "In a sense."

"You— _what_ —?" splutters Dezel, completely disarmed. As surreal as it seems, the wind hisses that everything has been leading up to this moment: the excitement, the uncertainty, Rose's careful attention to his responses. There's a teasing sparkle in her eye, it tells him, and a playful smile tugs at her mouth: is she sincere, or not? Either way, she ought to know that this will only hurt them both in the end; this entire conversation is a waste of their time and energy.

"You've been watching me for who knows how long," points out Rose, smiling openly now. "You should see how desperate I'm getting; it's been months since anyone's touched me! And, correct me if I'm wrong," she continues before Dezel can say anything, "I assume you know what that's like."

Panic drowns out every other emotion, even anger. This is _not_ supposed to happen; why must she tempt him like this? She ought to go back to bed where she belongs, and leave him to his solitude. "Listen," begins Dezel, trying to articulate his objections, but she interrupts him instead.

"Come _on_ , you can tell me," persists Rose, grinning wickedly, and leans against the wall once more with crossed arms—mimicking him, notes Dezel, and glowers at her. Was that consciously done, or an accidental imitation? "Is that why you're always in such a bad mood?"

Dezel only stares at Rose coldly in response; the temperature lowers accordingly. She shivers in the sudden chill, blinking in evident surprise, and he has a peculiar urge to laugh despite himself. It was her provocation that turned his winds wintry, after all; it was only right that she should feel the effects. "Shut up," he finally tells her, making a valiant effort to remember his anger.

"I rest my case," smiles Rose, hugging her arms around herself, and Dezel realizes abruptly from her body's natural reaction to the cold that she wears no extra layers below her tunic: the wind whispers of her womanhood, and he jerks his head aside to distract himself. _Not now_. "What do you do to keep from going crazy?"

Half-snarling, Dezel turns his back. "Nothing," he replies shortly, clenching his fists. She may be able to see him now, but she still doesn't know she clutches his heart in her hands; the hole in his chest aches in response. How could someone so pure be so cruel? This torment is more than even he deserves; with luck, his terse reply will discourage her, and she'll leave before temptation takes its toll.

But instead, Rose only snickers, "That explains a lot," and Dezel stares at her disbelievingly. So she's serious after all; she's come here on a mission, and he knows all too well that she never lets them go unfulfilled. But why—?

"Just… leave me alone," he growls desperately, bowing his head. She has no idea what she's getting herself into. For now, she only offers her body, but Dezel knows himself well enough to know that even this will never be enough; he will not be able to rest until Rose gives him her heart as well, even if that means ripping it out.

"Look, what's a girl gotta do to get a little lovin' around here, anyway?" she demands, taking another step forward. "I can't get any sleep when I'm riled up like this, and if this dry spell lasts much longer, I might even beg." Rose tosses him a roguish sort of grin, and Dezel can feel his color heighten. "Bet you've never seen _that_ before, even if you've watched me all my life."

Dezel swallows. There's just enough delicate emphasis on the last three words that maybe she's guessed, but he's already made one incorrect assumption tonight, and this one is more dangerous than the last. "Wh-why me?" he stammers distractedly, struggling to stand his ground as she approaches. "And why _now_?" he adds more forcefully.

"Seriously?" asks Rose, frowning, and halts several feet away. "You're so jealous of everyone else who so much as looks at me sideways, I thought you'd take me before I even asked," she continues, and Dezel bites back his automatic denial; he wouldn't be able to prove it, even if it was true. "Plus, you know, it might be our last night on earth and all that. So what's the holdup?"

Dezel takes a deep breath, shutting off his senses briefly in an attempt to corral his wayward thoughts. "I just want to know why," he tells her as calmly as possible, crossing his arms, and as he checks the wind again, it speaks of secrecy: she doesn't want to tell him the truth, whatever it may be.

But Rose's response is as swift and cutting as usual. "Well, who else am I supposed to do?" she returns, impudence masking pain, and Dezel narrows his eyes: she's on the defensive. "Sorey's too pure, and Edna's pure _evil_ , so I can't ask either of them," she continues, staring intently at the ceiling. "Lailah doesn't swing my way, and frankly, I'm not totally sure Mikleo does either—but he's so awkward I'd rather not bring it up in the first place.

"Oh, and strangers are always more trouble than they're worth," adds Rose, apparently as an afterthought. "So, really, you're the only choice." Her tone seems dismissive, but Dezel can sense a subtle undercurrent of worry, or apology: he makes a derisive noise in the back of his throat. The words she offers are undoubtedly true, but the wind still says she's lying; he can't trust her.

"I might have known you're only asking me since nobody else can handle you," growls Dezel, tightening his grip on his arms as if to pinch himself awake from a dream. But Rose is still there, weaving her arteless magic.

"I bet you know exactly how to _handle_ me," murmurs Rose, taking another step forward, and Dezel chokes back an involuntary vocalization as blue fire scorches his face. If only his senses were limited to sight! With the wind telling him of Rose's heightened senses and flushed cheeks, and of the moisture already pooling below—the symptoms of lust which cannot be falsified—it's all Dezel can do to ignore his own growing desire.

But he forces himself to consider that if Rose only wants him because she has no other choice, it'll be more painful to take her than to let her go. "I may have, once," he acknowledges reluctantly, spitting out the words; they're bitter, flavored by memories of many names other than his own on her tongue… and what inspired her to breathe them. "But I've forgotten by now." Because it hurts to remember.

"What?" asks Rose, frowning; her sultry tone has become a childlike whine, and Dezel almost smiles at the sudden switch. She may be decisive, but she's also changeable as the breeze he reads; she notices his shift in expression, and narrows her eyes, putting her hands on her hips. "How's _that_ work?"

"You never know," Dezel tells her, and his mouth twitches with the lingering impulse to smile. "Something might still jog my memory." If she shows him that tonight means something more than satisfaction, then perhaps that relief will be enough to soothe the pain of recalling in which ways all those hands had touched her before his own.

"Oh, I see how it is," says Rose, nodding, and crosses her arms. "There's always a catch. So, what do you want?" Even that question alone is almost enough to convince Dezel it's worth it; she never offers more than she expects to receive, so even considering a compromise is a testament to her investment in the idea.

"Just a few words, that's all," he tells her, touching shaky fingers to the top of his hat—more to steady himself than his headwear. He's so _close_ , and this means much more than he'd have thought mere minutes ago; he hadn't realized until now that Rose means as much to him as revenge. In his newfound anticipation, his heart is beating as fast as if he's been fighting. (Perhaps, in a way, he has been.)

"Please don't tell me I have to say the L word," mumbles Rose under her breath, and Dezel almost laughs, shaking his head. That's far too high a price for one night, and they both know it; she may have his heart, but it took years for him to accept that it was gone: he can't expect her to give him hers any more quickly.

"No," Dezel assures her, and she lets out a relieved sigh, as if she'd been holding her breath: had she really been worried that he would demand something so enduring in exchange for a fleeting moment of fulfillment? "Repeat after me: 'You are more than just a warm body'."

Rose offers him an apologetic smile, and for a moment Dezel thinks he has the upper hand—but she says only, "Oh. Got it." She swings her arms agitatedly before settling them behind her head, as if at a loss for what to do with herself, and Dezel wonders apprehensively whether that too is a higher price than she's willing to pay.

"Look, I'm really sorry," she sighs eventually, scowling at the ceiling in clear frustration. "I know that whole spiel about my lack of options probably sounded bad, but I'm _not_ asking you just because it's been awhile, okay? I promise." The wind tells Dezel that she's so close to the truth, he might be able to taste it on her lips; he takes a single, tentative step forward with the half-formed intention of testing the theory… but Rose stops him with a glance in his direction. "That may be the only thing on my mind right now, but trust me, it's nothing like what's in my heart. I think."

Dezel blinks down at her in shock; after a brief pause, she looks up at him earnestly, meeting his blind gaze with an effort. There's a shivering moment of silence, but for the wind supporting the truth of her words, whatever they may mean. Coming to his senses, he opens his mouth, but Rose rushes on, raises her voice slightly as if to discourage him from asking her to repeat herself.

"A-anyway," she continues hurriedly, "now that _that's_ over, what do you say? You, me, right here, right now." Pausing only to glance thoughtfully at one of the beds (followed by a swift look at the wall behind her), she takes one more step forward to stand before Dezel. Gracing him with a sly and seductive smirk, she slowly raises her hand to brush his cheek.

Dezel finally weakens under Rose's gentle caress, closing his sightless eyes, and the world fades around them like stars at sunrise. If she knows the risks, then so be it. Yet he hears his own words, contrary to his scattered thoughts: "You can do better than me," he mumbles, tugging off his gloves and tossing them aside, and brings his bare fingers up to hers with trembling touch. So this is her warmth, given to him at last; is he dreaming?

"Maybe you're right," smiles Rose, her eyes half-closed, and the wind notes her dilated pupils: he moistens his lips. "If you don't start taking your clothes off, that is," she adds teasingly, and her other hand darts up to pluck his hat quickly from his head. "We don't have all night, you know."

Dezel bows his head, conceding her point; however intangible tomorrow may be, it will still come before long. Reluctantly, his hand slips from hers, and he removes his jacket and shirt as swiftly as possible; Rose steps back and hums in appreciation, putting her hands on her hips. "Who knew you had such a nice body?" she asks, looking him over lasciviously as he kicks off his boots.

"And what about yours?" he asks, pausing to cross his arms and stare her down expectantly. He's seen her before, of course, but he's sure this time will be different; he's not protecting her now, nor watching her give herself to someone else, but rather indulging in her himself. Yet she only keeps watching him, making no move to take off her own clothes; the space between them crackles with tension—frigid, searing, _electric_.

"Still the winds first."

That's an order. Dezel rolls his eyes and gives a single, almost humorless chuckle in response, fumbling with his many buckles and straps. "Cold?" he grunts, carelessly discarding his belts; the clasps jangle against the ground, ringing through the ruins. Both of them freeze, listening hard to see if the sound has carried to Sorey's room—but the wind reassures him he sleeps as soundly as before, and they both breathe again.

"…A little," admits Rose, letting out a long breath and twirling his hat in her hand before tossing it gently aside. "But mostly, I just want you to _feel_ me," she tells him in a low voice, which fades to a mere breath at the end: Dezel shudders, intoxicated, and helplessly heeds her command. It's difficult, after five years of navigating by the wind, to restrict his sensory area to himself alone… but he has as little choice to ignore her as if his life depended upon his obedience. (After all, a seraph is always subservient to their vessel, in a way; just not usually like this.)

"Better?" asks Dezel huskily, as he renders himself blind at last, and must physically restrain himself from using the breeze to gauge her response. There is only the sound of undressing, and the stale air of the ruins; the uncertainty of her response makes his heart beat too quickly. Dezel is well and truly _vulnerable_ for the first time in years, and bares his teeth in a half-smile, half-grimace. What is this power she holds over him?

"…Yes," breathes Rose finally, and Dezel can feel the air stir in her wake as she takes the last steps towards him: he feels the warmth of her fingers only a fraction of a second before they hook themselves in his waistband. "Now, shut up and fuck me." Dezel inhales sharply, flushing; he opens his mouth slightly as if to speak… but she kisses him.

He drinks her in like Elixir, spilling over the edges of their mouths as her hands—oh spirits—nothing matters anymore except Rose—thoughts of tomorrow's trials vanish like mist in sunlight—he can feel her lips curl into a knowing smile, and Dezel almost snarls, aggressive as a hellion—she's robbed him of all his control—his hand slides down along her back—curving down around her thigh—now in front— _there_.

Rose's fingers grip his arm more tightly, and Dezel grins into their kiss, breaking momentarily away. "Mine," he growls in her ear, and her breath hitches. They settle into a clumsy sort of rhythm, up and down and back and forth, but it's not enough; he needs in and out as well. Yet Rose only leads him slowly backwards in a tantalizing tango; he tries to steer her to the beds, but she corrects his course each time, bringing him towards her until she brushes the wall and breaks away—

"Beds aren't all they're cracked up to be," pants Rose, by way of explanation, and Dezel realizes hazily that she's been leading him here all along; he can hear the smirk in her voice as she places moist palms on his shoulders. He can no longer think clearly enough to wonder what she's doing… but she answers his formless question before long.

"Catch me," she murmurs, pushing herself up. Obeying more out of instinct than comprehension, Dezel lifts her, supports her, presses her against the wall—and, just as instinctively, he awaits his orders. He doesn't need sight when Rose is there to guide him, after all; all a seraph needs in the world is a vessel, and she is his.

Or so he thinks: she bends her head to correct him, whispering in his ear. "Mine," she breathes, an echo of his last conscious word… and as she lets him in at last, Dezel _almost_ wishes he could deny it.

* * *

 _Addendum – I'll dedicate this to my friend Viisauden if he ends up shipping this, because it was actually a text conversation with him that sparked the first iteration of this idea, long before the English localization, in September 2014:_

 _ **Me:**_ _Dezel is kind of badass from what I've seen. Like, more than the other characters.  
 **Viisauden:**_ _Agreed. I'll be linking with him a lot.  
 **Me:**_ _So will I, and if you make a joke out of that, so help me Cruxis…  
 **Viisauden:**_ _Don't worry, that's low-hanging fruit joke-wise. I like to believe I'm better than that comedically.  
 **Me:**_ _Not so good that you won't take the opportunity to mention direct-tethering with Gaius.  
 **Viisauden:**_ _Well, that's Gaius. And I'm sure you're much more interested in tending to the king's bedspread than direct-tethering.  
 **Me:**_ _See, this is what I mean.  
 **Viisauden:**_ _*maniacal laughter*  
 **Me:**_ _I'm sure you'll find a euphemism for Dezel too.  
 **Viisauden:**_ _Probably. Do you wanna ride his winds? …Boom. Mission accomplished.  
 **Me:**_ _Martel in heaven, that didn't take long._


End file.
